


your heart, so damp and bleak

by ohallows



Series: give up control [1]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Infection, Loss of Bodily Autonomy, Loss of Control, another ‘hey what if one party member got infected’ fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 21:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21106553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohallows/pseuds/ohallows
Summary: It was bound to happen sooner or later. One of them getting infected was almost inevitable, a poison waiting in the wings as they got ever closer to what they thought the source of the infection. It was a contingency they’d planned for, one they’d expected, one he’d been trained for, but this is - something new. Zolf hadn’t thought it’d be him.





	your heart, so damp and bleak

**Author's Note:**

> i 10000% blame connor, isabelle, ross, and mae for this. mae, ur not caught up and can’t read this, but when you are… this is partially on you.
> 
> so like. slow loss of control over one’s self is kind of one of my Things esp when they have to fight against it? anyway this is inspired by the guy who didn’t like musicals just in that ‘let it out’ is a good fucking song and also like. love the way that infection worked

It was bound to happen sooner or later. One of them getting infected was almost inevitable, a poison waiting in the wings as they got ever closer to what they thought the source of the infection. It was a contingency they’d planned for, one they’d expected, one he’d been trained for, but this is - something new. Zolf hadn’t thought it’d be him. Had always been so careful to avoid touch, so careful to avoid getting too close, Wilde’s lessons drilled into his head from months of suspicion, of everyone around them slowly being stripped bare, turning into…  _ something. _

This is - this is different.

Maybe it’s a new strain of the infection. Maybe it’s progressing faster than Wilde thought. Maybe it’s adapting and changing to what they’re doing. They had a theory that it was almost sentient, knowing who to turn and where to spread to so it would be undetected before it’s too late. They thought it took seven days. Maybe it still does, maybe Zolf’s getting rusty or complacent, or maybe there weren’t any blue veins to begin with, maybe they’re getting better at staying hidden. Maybe it’s adapting to them the way they’ve been adapting to it, shifting and changing to keep them on their toes.

Maybe it’s just… bad luck. 

The first sign is a whisper, stretching across his mind, something Zolf had brushed away as nothing but a product of a lack of sleep and a hyper-paranoid imagination. It doesn’t last long, no more than a half second that he ignores - a half second that changes… everything. 

It’s nothing but a gods-damned  _ whisper _ . 

And then his body locks in place.

Everyone continues on without him, and his mouth opens and closes wordlessly as he tries to call out, tries to warn them. He’s trapped in his own mind, staring helplessly after his friends, after the people he loves and cares about, and he can’t  _ do anything _ to stop this. 

_ A new host _ … drifts across his mind, and Zolf feels his entire body shudder. He gasps out a breath, too quiet for any of them to hear, muscles straining as he tries to move at  _ all _ . He gets a twitch in his finger, and then it moves effortlessly along with his arm as it lifts up. Only… he didn’t move it. 

He has to warn them, has to tell Wilde at  _ least _ , he’s the best situated to get the message out that the disease is changing, that Zolf’s somehow infected and can’t be trusted, before he can hurt anyone he -

_ You should kill them _ , the voice in his head says, and Zolf twitches, fingers suddenly itching to wrap around his glaive. He can see it all in his head; a gruesome scene that ends with him standing victorious among his  _ friends _ on the ground, and for a moment his blood sings with it, a humming in his veins that whites out all other instinct. He finds himself taking a step forward unconsciously and then he’s back, slammed into a body that feels too small, too constricted, and if he wasn’t locked in place again he thinks he would have fallen to his knees. 

_ No, no, no, _ he thinks, and the laugh that returns is silky smooth and insidious, traveling like a breath of cold air along his already-frayed nerves. His arms stretch out to the side and flex, and Zolf feels like he’s being compressed, being pushed down into a space too small, and he still can’t move of his own volition, can’t do anything but beat against the walls of his own head as an alien, otherworldly consciousness spreads along his veins.

Zolf swears in his head, trying to stop his arms from moving, and they falter for a moment.  _ Why are you fighting us?  _ breezes along his mind again, confused and incredulous.  _ We can free you from your pain. From your responsibilities. You can serve a higher purpose _ .

He’s done enough of that, thanks. He gave up on Poseidon for a reason, and he didn’t get out from one god’s thumb to be imprisoned in his own body by a sentient virus. 

_ Never _ , he snarls in his head, and hears nothing but a chuckle in response. 

_ The choice is no longer yours, _ it says, and Zolf’s body stumbles forward, walking on awkward legs as Zolf does anything he can to take back the reins. All he needs is a minute, a single moment for any of them to realize that he isn’t himself anymore, but they’re all still walking ahead of him, discussing the next part of their plan. 

He won’t be able to hold out for much longer, and he tries to shout, tries to warn them, but neither Hamid nor Cel nor Azu nor even Wilde notice as he stays frozen in place, straining with every muscle in his body to try to move an inch. He - he knows it’s the infection, knows it’s the virus they’ve been chasing, just as much as he knows that there’s no chance for him now. He doesn’t even know how it happened, how he got infected, can’t warn any of them that it could be laying dormant under their skin, and he feels worse than helpless as he stands there, motionless.

It takes them too long before they finally notice Zolf isn’t with them; Wilde is the first, glancing from side to side until finally turning around and seeing him standing behind all of them.

“Zolf?” he calls, confusion laced throughout his voice. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Taking a quick break - just a little tired,” the  _ thing _ says with his voice, and Zolf tries to scream, tries to do anything other than be locked in his own brain, unable to move. 

“Are you alright?” Hamid asks, and starts to walk back toward Zolf. “I have some food and water in my pack, you can have some, Zolf.”

No. No, no,  _ no,  _ not him, please - Zolf strains harder than he has before, fighting with everything he has to get one word out, one motion, to tell Hamid he isn’t okay, that it isn’t him, and even with how hard he pushes, how much he tries,  _ there’s nothing he can do _ .

Hamid walks closer, concern spreading across his face when Zolf doesn’t respond. Zolf can’t speak, can’t say anything, and he can feel a darkness, an alien presence in his mind slowly taking control. He wants to beg Hamid to stay back, wants to warn him, because he can feel his hand tightening around the glaive in his grip, and the excitement of the infection in his brain.

He gets a moment in the end, nothing more; he’s not sure if it’s him being strong enough to break through or if it’s the infection having a sick sense of humor, but he takes the chance anyway. 

“Run,” he manages to garble out, a sick swooping sensation in his stomach as Hamid clocks it all in an instant, the sweat pouring down his face, the white of his knuckles as they grip the staff of his glaive tight, the eerie blue shimmer of his veins poking through the skin. It’s only a moment, nothing more, and the fear that spreads across Hamid’s face is the last thing Zolf remembers before the darkness closes like a curtain over his mind. 

His hands twitch, involuntary. His face curls up into a smile, an unnatural pulling at his skin as it stretches wider than it should be able to. He takes one step forward, and then another, stilted, and then it’s like something slots into place.

_ “Now,”  _ it says, and it’s his voice as much as it isn’t, discordant and staticky, a thousand voices layered over his as his head tilts to an unnatural angle, and the glaive spins in his hand. “ _ Let’s have a little  _ ** _fun.”_ **

**Author's Note:**

> we have fun here usually 
> 
> final note: for abbegails (and my) sake, i’m gonna say they subdue zolf and find a cure and then he’s very guilty and everyone helps him feel better. and then not talk abt it otherwise she’ll dota me like she did connor
> 
> also don’t @ me dark zolf… hot
> 
> the working title for this was ‘infected zolf bc i am nothing if not a stereotype’


End file.
